


The Body in the Blue Room

by Lene3161



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Art Forgery, Class Differences, Country House Party, Edwardian Period, Fluff, Great house, Illegitimacy, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Murder Mystery, Piano, Servants, Singing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:22:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26271085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lene3161/pseuds/Lene3161
Summary: What had he been thinking, forging two of the same painting? Why couldn't he have stuck to his own art? Why did he have to take Dufresne's criticism so personally? It was what had started this whole mess, after all.Now there was a murder in Thornburn House and he was neck deep in the investigation.At least he got to see Commander Bond in his naval uniform. It was worth the predicament he found himself in.
Relationships: James Bond/Q, Q & OMCs, Q | Boothroyd & Q (Bond - Craig Movies)
Kudos: 3





	The Body in the Blue Room

**Author's Note:**

> Q: be gay do crime  
> Riqueti: I'm going to end this man's whole career

The porter looked up as one of the house’s lodgers stumbled into the hall with his valet. Both of them were supporting a young man in his shirtsleeves who was nursing a black eye. He walked closer to help but was brushed off by George, the valet.

‘ _C’est d’accord_ , Auger. Lord Norington’s nephew, _il est ivre_. _Brasserie_ fisticuffs. Nothing to worry about.’

Auger snorted a laugh. He watched as the young man was led upstairs into Lord Norington’s lodgings, shaking his head at the follies of youth.

In Lord Norington’s tastefully furnished drawing room, George went straight to the tantalus while his master ushered a dazed Silas Lambourne, also known as Q, into an armchair.

‘Papa, what on _earth_ —’ Lady Eglantine Boothroyd began. She and her younger siblings watched from the doorway that connected the drawing room to the sleeping rooms. Remington pushed through his older sisters, eyeing Q with excitement.

‘Not now! Darlings, go back to bed, I’ll explain later.’

Shooting her father mistrustful looks, Eglantine herded the three younger children back to their rooms.

Her father turned back to Q. ’Are you quite alright?’ Geoffrey Boothroyd, sixth Marquess of Norington, asked gruffly.

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Good. And call me Uncle Jeff; that was how you used to call me as a child.’

George, in that clever way first-class valets have of appearing just when people needed them most, handed Lord Norington a snifter containing two fingers of brandy.

‘Drink up, son. You’re white as a bone. George, make up the guest bedroom and draw a bath for young Silas.’

The old retainer bowed and left to do as commanded. By now, the drink had put some colour in Q’s cheeks.

‘Thank you, my lord, but it’s unnecessary. I have rooms that I need to get back to—‘

‘It’s Uncle Jeff. Silas, once you return, you will have your throat slit by toughs. I’m afraid I can’t let you leave.’

‘Surely you don’t plan on locking me away in your apartments, my lord.’

Lord Norington sighed, giving up on getting Q to call him by the familiar epithet. ’Given your propensity for getting into trouble, it seems the best way to keep you safe. What will your mother say if she knows your current state?’

Q winced. ‘I imagine there would be a lot of shouting. Are you going to write to her, my lord?’

‘No. It would take a stronger man than I to break her heart.’

Awkward silence filled the drawing room. Thankfully, George arrived and announced that all was ready for Master Silas. Q stared at him, puzzled. Master was how servants referred to the so—

‘It’s Mr Lambourne, George. Silas, I’m afraid George…gets confused. He’s seventy-eight, after all. Hop along now, you don’t want the bath to get cold.’

Q pursed his lips at the way his host treated his man. Any decent employer would have retired George with an annuity. But he wasn’t about to refuse Lord Norington’s offer. After all, this was likely to be the last bath he would have in months. He was too preoccupied to notice the look of utter fury Lord Norington shot his valet as George led him into the bathroom.

Q jerked at the knock to the bathroom door.

‘Who is it?’ He called out.

‘George, my lord. I brought your tea tray.’

‘Please set it on top of the dresser, George. I’m afraid I won’t be decent for some time yet.’

‘Very good, my lord.’

Q shook his head at George’s senility. He leaned back and brushed back his loose black curls. His green eyes took in the room properly, having ignored everything but the bath drawn for him earlier. Said bath was on one side of the room, its gold taps gleaming in the late afternoon sun coming in from the windows. The floor was white marble, and the walls were tiled in a green and gold mosaic. Q wished he could stay in the warm water forever, and not have to face his future, or lack thereof.

What had he been thinking, making two of the same forgery? He had never been so reckless before. It had been glorious, to look at how his old enemy praised _Feast_ in his art gallery and think that the same painting was being brought to Greece for a businessman called Riqueti. Look at what his wish to one-up Dufresne got him—he was now the target of a very dangerous criminal. Not to mention that Riqueti would surely expose Q’s “employer” to the world. Good God, when it was discovered there was no “employer”, he or his family would be forced to pay back every penny he earned! Why the hell was he with his mother’s old friend instead of securing his earnings and destroying evidence?

Q climbed out of the bath and managed to dry himself with a minimum of wincing. He was lucky to get away with only bruises; Riqueti’s thugs could have pulled his fingernails out, or some other gruesome torture. Now all that was left to do was—

He paused before picking up his shirt. It had seemed so simple, but now reality was crashing down on him. Lord Norington was right, Riqueti’s men would be waiting for him to come back so they could finish the job. And even if, by some miracle, they weren’t waiting, would there even _be_ anything for him to come back to? They would have seized or destroyed everything: the paints, the frames, all his reference books, even the piano. His letters were in the carpet sweeper, so at least his family and friends wouldn’t be a target. But the cash in his emergency bag would undoubtedly be taken. And there was no way to go to the bank to take the rest of his earnings. He was well and truly fucked.

Q abandoned his shirt and put on the dressing gown George had picked out for him. He stepped out of the bathroom to find Lord Norington sitting on one of the two armchairs in front of the window. A teapot was steaming merrily on the table next to two cups.

‘Silas, I apologize for hounding you, but we need to talk.’ Lord Norington gestured to the other armchair. ‘Come, sit. How do you take your tea?’

‘Milky with a lot of sugar, my lord,’ Q replied, sitting down. ‘I normally take it black, but given the current situation, I’m afraid I’ll need it soon.’

Something peculiar flashed through Lord Norington’s grey eyes before he smiled at Q. ‘That makes two of us. My children think me a heathen for it.’

Lord Norington fixed up their cups. Q took a fortifying sip, barely registering the taste of the fine black tea, before saying ‘My lord, Riqueti will turn the art world against me, I have only the clothes on my back, and my family’s reputation will be ruined. I haven’t the faintest idea of what to do now.’

‘Calm down, son.’ The Marquess said, clapping Q’s shoulder. Q realised he was shaking, his chest rising and falling in quick gasps. ‘Deep breaths, that’s it.’

Q pressed a hand to his face, struggling against the urge to scream. God, why couldn’t he have contented himself with his own art?

‘It’s a small consolation, but I doubt Riqueti would poison your name. It would mean admitting he had been duped. But we still have a problem on our hands, namely, what to do with you now. I have a plan, but I’m afraid you will find some aspects of it distasteful. I was hoping that between the two of us we can find another way.’

‘My lord, you’ve done more than enough. Truly, all I need is a ticket to George Town. I have a friend who will happily take me in.’

‘Silas, I will not leave you again.’ Lord Norington’s grip tightened. ‘I’ve done it once, and it is not an experience I would care to repeat.’

‘But my lord, I will be putting you and your family in danger.’

‘Don’t you think I have worked out how my children can be safeguarded? And stop thinking of keeping me safe. I could die of heart failure tonight. The building could collapse on all our heads next week. There could be an earthquake that will destroy my estate tomorrow. My boy, I would much rather die saving you than be found cold in my bed twenty years later after having thrown you to the wolves.’

Q swallowed down a sob. All his life, only his mother had cared for him so. ‘I can’t give you anything for this, my lord. Unless you have some paintings you would like to sell and replace with a copy.’

‘Nothing so artistic, I’m afraid.’ Lord Norington ruffled Q’s hair. ‘I wish for you to take George’s post.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Surely he was mistaken. Surely Lord Norington wasn’t suggesting that he become a _servant_.

‘I realise this is unideal. You are, after all, the son of a doctor. But I have no need for a secretary, and you are untrained in managing an estate. It’s valet or nothing, I’m afraid.’

‘Er…’

‘I have insulted you. My apologies.’ Lord Norington plucked the cup from Q’s fingers and nearly overfilled it with tea. ‘I suppose you can be a distant cousin come to spend time with me.’

‘Can’t I be an artist you commissioned a portrait from? My lord.’

‘With my current finances? Silas, the whole of Britain knows that all my family has left is our white elephant of an estate. The agricultural depression, I’m afraid.’

Q wrung his hands. ‘Is there not even one painting? I can play art restorer, my lord.’

‘Not enough money for even that, and no one is willing to give me credit. And even if you proclaim yourself a starving portraitist who took a commission of last resort, it will still give us trouble. Riqueti would undoubtedly be combing through your connections. An artist matching your description being mentioned in connection to me, a man many know as a friend of your mother’s, will surely be a target. A valet, on the other hand—servants are an invisible multitude, my boy. And I have dealt with Riqueti before. He’d never think anyone would willingly become a servant, not that that stopped him from having dozens. What do you say to that?’

‘I have no idea what a valet does. I’ll bungle the job and it will be obvious I’m not a member of the working class.’

‘George will train you. You’re a clever boy, Silas, I’m sure you’ll learn quickly.’

Lord Norington watched Q as the young man hesitated. ‘Is anything the matter, son?’

‘What about George? I hate to rob a man of his living. And my apology for the insult, my lord, but there is the matter of my quarters. My family has three maids and their room was a barren cell. I understand I cannot expect privileges, but—’

‘George has always wanted to retire to a seaside cottage in France. I have one such property ready for him. He has been looking for a replacement for months, he’d be delighted to train you. And as my valet, you’re not just a servant, my boy, you are an _upper_ servant. They use fine china and linen napkins and have wine while the lower servants have beer. You will have a bedroom adjoining mine. We can spend time together in the evenings as equals.’

Q resisted the urge to point out that the difference between a noble and a middle class man was as wide as the distance between stars. If Lord Norington wanted to pretend at egalitarianism, who was he to say no to the man who had rescued him? 

‘Then I believe I will take the position.’

‘Excellent.’ Lord Norington sounded so exquisitely happy that Q couldn’t help but smile back. The joy in the older man’s face brought life back into the grey-curled visage beaming at him.

Lord Norington patted Q’s shoulder. ‘But you have to get better first, son. You can’t be a valet when you wince every time you move.’

‘Yes, my lord. Thank you for the position, my lord.’

‘Don’t thank me. I know you are not entirely happy with the plan.’

‘But you still offered me a job when you didn’t have to, my lord, all because you know my mother. I wouldn’t blame you if you just gave me the money for my passage to George Town. Also, you’re putting yourself in danger just for me, and for that I can’t thank you enough.’ Q smiled up at the old man.

Lord Norington sighed. ‘Just don’t get into any more mischief. It was a miracle that you survived Riqueti’s gang. Don’t push your luck.’

‘Yes, my lord.’


End file.
